MELITA
She didn’t have long to ponder much of anything – the excitement buoyed, the silliness prevailed, when Jigano swept into her sights, prospering a gentlemanly bow, causing her to laugh, to giggle, a woodland sprite in her best dress. “Likewise,” the youth hastened with her enriched grin, proffering her hand as he asked her to dance – turning to drop her basket on the ground, Fangorn its hardy, stalwart guard, before she twirled and turned into the folds. “Of course!” Her answer was blistering and bright, a luminescent glow, a restless, ardent sprig.Jigano would likely find her rhythm akin to something bestial and a bit barbaric, savage, untamed, wild and rough, but delightful all the same, a harbinger of enchantment and amusement, indifferent towards the steps and proper nuances; alive to the swing of the music and melodies. The tunes were always different, an art she hadn’t heard elsewhere, not from her mother or sister’s lips, not from the melancholy, haunting dirges of the Rift, not from the pockets of sand in the Dragon’s Throat. But she beat to it, feet a rapid, spiraling motion, laughter on a gale.
Then, her motions turned a tiny more conspiring, leaning in closer to the ivory in Jigano’s hair, on tiptoes with his tremendous height. It was a whisper along the rise and fall of the musical crescendos, but enough where she presumed he could hear. The girl thought the bard to be full of sagacity, wisdom, and the latest gossip – her eyes flickering briefly to the bandaged lion, hurt and blundered against again. “Do you know what happened to Remi?”
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
